Knight Life by Peter David Page B

“This is going to be tougher than I thought.”
    â€œ Y OU ’ RE LATE.”
    Â Â Â Â  Gwen stopped in the doorway, openly surprised. Lance was seated at the kitchen table, his chair tilted back against the wall. He looked impatient, even huffy. And she realized with a shock that it had been ages since she’d really taken a look at him, so rarely had he been both around and conscious these days.
    Â Â Â Â  He pushed his thick glasses back up on the bridge of his nose. The unhealthy pallor he’d acquired had not improved. In addition his lips were dry and cracked. The blue check shirt he’d worn for four days straight was taking on a life of its own. His jeans were threadbare at the knees, and his socks were standing over in the corner, retaining the shape of his feet as if from memory.
    Â Â Â Â  Not too long ago, such appearance on his part seemed almost romantic to her. Now it just seemed … creepysomehow. But then she promptly scolded herself. She was not about to lose faith in him. He was a creative type, and much smarter than she was, and besides, she had known going into the relationship that writers were creative types. That they had to be indulged, not pressured, their imaginations permitted to run wild without having to worry about trivial matters like hygiene and … and …
    Â Â Â Â  God, was that smell him?
    Â Â Â Â  “Lance,” she managed to get out. She glanced at her watch. “Am I really that late? It’s only a little after six.”
    Â Â Â Â  He tapped a bony forefinger on the tabletop. “I expect dinner by six P.M . sharp.”
    Â Â Â Â  She looked askance at him as she removed her coat and hung it on a hook near the door. “Since when, Lance?”
    Â Â Â Â  “Since when what?”
    Â Â Â Â  “Since when do you expect your dinner at six P.M . sharp,” she said patiently. “You’re usually not home then. And even if you are, you might be asleep, like as not.”
    Â Â Â Â  “Are you criticizing me?” He’d spoken in a tone that was guaranteed to make her back down, to force her into a sniveling apology. But as she crossed the room and sat down across from him, his face registered with a distant sort of surprise that such an apology was not to be forthcoming.
    Â Â Â Â  “I am not criticizing you,” she said slowly, thoughtfully. She took his hand and held it gently, affectionately, trying not to flinch from how clammy it felt. “If you have a regular schedule you’d like to maintain, I’ll be more than happy to aid in maintaining it. But don’t try to change things on me and then get mad because I can’t read your mind.”
    Â Â Â Â  His eyes narrowed. He had tilted the chair forward, and now tilted it back, interlacing his fingers in a gesture he imagined made him look very authoritative. “I think you should give up your job.”
    Â Â Â Â  Her eyes widened. “Stop working for Art? Are you nuts?” Her voice went up an octave. “He’s the best thingthat’s ever happened to me! The past weeks I’ve been working for him have been—”
    Â Â Â Â  His body stiffened, suddenly not listening to anything else she was saying. “Wait a minute. Best thing? What about me? I thought I was the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
    Â Â Â Â  Gwen huffed in irritation. It was so annoying. She’d come home in such a good mood, and suddenly she felt as if she was being sandbagged by Lance. When he’d acted this way in the past, she’d always chalked it up to his being in one of his moods. Suddenly, though, that explanation felt … inadequate. “Well, of course you are, Lance. I’m talking about two different things.”
    Â Â Â Â  “Two different best things.”
    Â Â Â Â  She shifted